


holdin myself back from this part

by crookedsaint



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Butch Lesbian Son Scotch, Butch Lesbian York Silk, F/F, Meet-Cute, Minor Swearing, Open Mic Night, background garages drama because there always has to be, meditations on butchness (but make it blaseball)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsaint/pseuds/crookedsaint
Summary: Son Scotch didn't come to a Garages set in Seattle to fall in love with anybody. The plan was simple: get in, get a drink, see the show, and get out. Lucky for them, they'd never been part of an operation that hadn't gone at least a little bit off the rails.
Relationships: Son Scotch/York Silk
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	holdin myself back from this part

**Author's Note:**

> in this fic, york silk and son scotch are both middle-aged butch lesbians, because i said so! york uses she/her and scotch uses they/them.
> 
> title is from easy to love by couch!

Seattle wasn’t half bad—even a gal as jaded as Son Scotch could admit as much. Sure, the rain was near-constant, but it was quieter than the thunderstorms back in Houston. The people were strange, too: at once too distant and too familiar. Everyone called them Son here, which they’d never get used to. Down South, it was all reassuring _sirs_ and the occasional quickly-resolved _ma’am._ Honorifics aside, the food alone should be enough to make them quietly arrange for a mysterious fire to raze Seattle to the ground in all its gentrified glory. But all that and more were worth it for one thing: the music.

Scotch knew they weren’t the target demographic of the Garages. Most would assume them to be a jazz aficionado—a vinyl guy at the least, right? But after the girl who broke their heart in high school, they couldn’t stomach most old standards. Too many nights spent running audition numbers in her room, her singing, Scotch on keys—

There they went again. Ruminating, their therapist called it. Scotch preferred reminiscing, but whatever kept the lady happy and the league off their back. Point was, it’s not like their whole personality was _suave super-spy._ They’d always appreciate a good (terrible) garage rock mixtape to blast as they tore down the highway. The girl in high school had been good for that, really. Her car could go zero to sixty in four.

So that was how Son Scotch ended up in a seedy dive on the outskirts of Capitol Hill staring holes into the bottom of their glass as the rain poured down outside. The Garages were supposed to play a set within the hour. From the upset on the other end of the bar, though, that wasn’t looking likely.

“I swear to god, Jay. This is the fifth time. Once would be understandable! Twice starts getting mean, and three times is cruel, but—”

“Allison, please, both of you. We’re on in thirty, and we need to—”

“Oh, so it’s cruel when I write a song to externalize some of the bullshit you put me through, but when you perform—”

“If you bring up the—”

“Come on, you guys—”

“Shut up, Mike.”

Scotch sighed. They may miss high school in a distant, nostalgic sort of way, but they’d never miss being twentysomething and stupid.

The open mic would have to do. Apparently, it was an every-Friday event at the bar. It wasn’t… _terrible_ , but it definitely took “stripped down” to new heights (and not even in the fun burlesque sense). Act after act performed with the same acoustic guitar, the same crackly, fragile vocal style, the same faux-Texan consonants and faux-Canadian vowels that so haunt folk punk these days. The worst of both worlds, in Scotch’s opinion.

That is, until York Silk stepped onstage.

“You might know me from the Hawaiʻi Fridays! If not, nice to meet you! I’ll be performing an original song I wrote myself… uh, as opposed to an original I didn’t write, gosh. This one goes out to the fellow butches in the crowd.” A small smile. “Here goes.”

Scotch almost choked on her drink. The woman onstage had the audacity to look just as model-gorgeous in an oversized, neon Hawaiʻian shirt paired with a jean jacket and jorts as she did in a blaseball uniform. Not only that, she had the confidence to stand up there and perform an original with only a ukulele to back herself up. And, as if that wasn’t _enough_ , she was singing about…

“ _Rough hands to cradle my face_

_Soft ones to pick up the slack_

_When there are memories I can’t erase_

_Of times that I used to want back…”_

Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled, and Scotch lifted a hand to their own lips to check it hadn’t been them. Sure, the song wasn’t really Scotch’s taste. They went in for a little more passion, a little more holler—at the very least, a little more pizzazz. Silk’s _voice_ , though.

“ _Kind words when I tell them no_

_Sweet tunes that drift in the air_

_In the bathroom where everything echoes_

_And their hands guide the buzzer in my hair…”_

Let’s just say the name wasn’t inaccurate.

Even after she left the stage, Scotch was left staring at the place she’d left, carefully dog-earing and labeling the memory for later use. Tucking it away, locking the drawer. Couldn’t have it throwing them off their game once the season started, right? They’d never even played pro blaseball before. They’d need all the help they could—

“I saw you staring.”

It was only by the grace of whoever was watching that Scotch didn’t spill their drink all over York Silk.

“You. Sorry?”

“Scotch, right? Son Scotch?” 

“That’s what they call me.” Scotch cleared their throat, trying to set aside the fact that every hair on their body was standing on end thanks to York being only a few feet away and oh, even closer now, huh—

She slid onto the barstool next to them, tucking her legs aside as though she was posing for something. “I saw your name when the rosters came out. Houston Spies?”

They inclined their head slightly. “And you said you were on the Fridays.” As if Scotch hadn’t put together a file on every player in the ILB the moment the roster was announced as part of their Agency contract. As if they’d not lingered extra long on the promotional shots of Silk on the field, fade freshly trimmed, jersey tossed playfully over one shoulder (grin bright and sunny even printed in black-and-white).

“I wonder if we’ll play each other?” She ran a hand through that same fade. “Or, wait. You’re in the Evil League, right?”

Scotch shrugged. “Still a chance we’ll meet in the playoffs.”

“We’ve met already, haven’t we?”

“We can always meet again, can’t we?” Scotch countered. York only quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t even get to introduce myself. You did it for me.”

“And I’m afraid mine was a little impersonal,” York said. “I’m sorry.”

“Game for another try?”

“Who am I to refuse?”

Scotch tipped their near-empty coupe glass at York. “I’m Son Scotch, lineup player for the soon-to-be-infamous Houston Spies and perfectly normal research analyst. And you?”

The _audacity_ made another appearance as York leaned forward on the bar, tilting her head at them. “York Silk, on the Fridays. But I’m sure you knew that, perfectly normal research analyst.”

So she had noticed. Some part of Scotch wanted to smile, to indulge in a little pride in their work. “And what would a lady like you drink at a place like this, York Silk?”

“Oh, you know. I like my drinks like I like my women.” She plucked the glass from their hand. “Scotch.”

Fortunately, they managed to catch the glass before it shattered on the floor.

“What’s _in_ that drink?” York coughed, hiding her face in her sleeve.

“Blended scotch whisky, sweet red vermouth, and Angostura bitters,” they rattled off. “It’s a Rob Roy.”

“Damn, he sounds like a nice guy. Shame he got that cocktail named after him.” York snorted, schooling her expression away from mildly ashamed and back to shamelessly flirtatious. She propped her chin on her hands. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink that tastes like, I don’t know, something edible?”

“Depends.” Scotch smiled back, in a manner they hoped said _rakish_ and not _creepy._ “What’s a girl’s real favorite liquor?”

“This might be embarrassing, but I’m the cider type.” 

“Why is that embarrassing?”

“Flavored cider.”

“I see.” Scotch waved the bartender over. “If I could get a…” They stared at the chalkboard behind the bar for a moment. “Raspberry Woodchuck for her, and a Rusty Nail for me?”

“No problem. Opening a tab?”

“Sure, here’s my—”

“Absolutely not,” York said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. “I’ll pay cash for both.”

The bartender smiled. “Sure.”

“At the very least split the—”

“Here. Keep whatever the change comes out to.”

“Thanks!”

Before Scotch could get a word in edgewise, they were gone. “I can’t believe you.”

York snorted. “It’s just two drinks.”

“Exactly!” Scotch said. “You could have just let me pay.”

“I could have. But that would be admitting defeat.” York pulled her legs up onto the barstool, crossing them like a kid at a diner. “So you’re a research analyst, huh?”

“And you’re a singer.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

Scotch leaned in closer. “And you’re very, very good.”

“I know.” York draped an arm over their shoulder. “Couldn’t go embarrassing butches everywhere. I basically had to crush it.”

They hummed. “It was a little embarrassing.”

“What? You didn’t like my playing, then?”

“Just a little personal. Can’t just get up onstage and tell the world all our secrets, now can you.”

“Careful, miss research analyst.”

“Mister.”

“That so?”

A mic screeched and crackled. “Hi, I’m, uh, Mike Townsend, formerly one third of the Seattle Garages, now one-fourteenth.” Scotch pulled away, lifting York’s arm gently off their shoulder. “And… I’m your act for tonight! Because my bandmates are currently hashing out some creative difficulties.” They didn’t let go of her hand. “Anyway, so, I’m going to play some stuff I’ve been working on! This one’s called, uh, About a Squirrel. It’s a Nirvlana parody, so, yeah. Cheers, I guess!”

“Poor guy,” York muttered.

“How much you want to bet they’re making out in the bathroom as we speak?”

“I don’t make bets when I know I’ll lose, stupid,” she said. Her hand still rested in Scotch’s—not holding it, exactly. Still noncommittal. 

But there, nonetheless.

“Say,” they began.

“If you’re going to ask if I want to get out of here, I’m pretty sure the bathroom’s already taken.”

“Forty bucks sure?”

“Don’t even try it.”

Scotch stood up, lifting York’s hand as they did so as if to help her down. She was, after all, _perched_ on the barstool more than seated. But, of course, because the universe could never give Son Scotch a break, she lifted their hand to her lips and kissed Scotch’s ring.

They did not blush. They didn’t even shiver. But they could admit, they were impressed.

“Planning to get down from there any time soon?”

“Sure, sure.” As soon as York’s feet touched the ground, she was already tugging Scotch towards the door. They pushed through the crowd that had trickled in from outside—was trickling out again, by the looks of it, which Scotch didn’t blame them for—and out the door.

Right into a rainstorm.

“Shit! Ha! Oh, wow, that’s cold!” York yanked Scotch back under the awning with her.

“Not used to cold rain, huh?” Scotch smirked. “Shouldn’t have worn denim in Seattle in October.”

“It seemed like the thing to do!”

“Much less shorts.”

“You have to admit these calves are worth showing off, though.” York pressed herself closer to Scotch, tucking herself under their arm.

“Hey, hey. Don’t go getting me all wet. Here.” They pulled off their trench coat (standard issue, and a great look, besides). “You need it more than I do.”

York looked down at them, dubious. “You’re wearing cotton, too.”

“I’ll live.”

“And I won’t?”

Scotch met her eyes, trying the whole eyebrow-raise thing for themself.

“Fine, fine. But you’re taking my jacket, too.”

They couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s not going to fit my shoulders.”

“It’s oversized!”

“Not that oversized, hon.”

The pet name had slipped out without them realizing. Maybe they could blame it on their Houston upbringing. Or maybe Scotch had reminisced a little too hard about the girl from high school. Whatever it was, York sure didn’t seem to mind. No, all she did was cup Scotch’s cheek with her hand, tilting their chin up.

“Hon?”

“Does it bother you?”

“I normally don’t like being condescended to.”

“If I were condescending to you, you’d know.” They laid a hand on the lapel of their jacket where it hung loose across York’s shoulders. “I’d call you baby. Or sweetie. Or darlin’.”

“Let me guess. You’d offer to walk me home.”

“At least to your hotel. I don’t have a boat.”

“Typical. You spend all evening flirting with someone and it turns out they don’t even have a boat.”

“Why even bother?” Scotch whispered, and kissed her.

It was a novel feeling to pull a woman close by the lapels. Had been a long, long time since Scotch had even had the opportunity. But what was more novel was the feeling of pulling _York Silk_ close, spreading a hand across the nape of her neck, feeling her hands come to rest on their hips, kissing her slow as anything. Slow—as if they weren’t strangers. As if they were people who just didn’t know each other too well yet.

There would be plenty of time for that.

It was York who broke the kiss, but only because she’d started laughing.

“Am I really that bad?”

“No, no—” She brought a hand up to cover her mouth, and Scotch ached for the loss of both the contact and the view. “—I’m just. _Wow._ ”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s, uh. Been a minute.” She leaned down again, settling her forehead against Scotch’s and laying her hand on their shoulder. “Hey, I’m York Silk on the Fridays. Wanna walk me back to my hotel?”

Scotch picked York’s hand up off their shoulder, lacing their fingers in hers. “Son Scotch. Houston Spies. Strong woman like you doesn’t seem like she needs an escort.”

“What if I want one?”

“Then it’d be a pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> the song lyrics in this fic, by the way, are part of an original i plan to record and drop by valentine's day. stay tuned on my tumblr @socksmaybe if you're curious!


End file.
